The child of fire and moonlight is in mourning.
She walks along the dusty path, and the soot rises up to stain her sides, dampening bright copper into old, clouded brass. Striped hooves tear into salted earth, pushing aside the fragile ground with a careless melancholy; the whirling particles reflect her mind, meaningless, infinite, and aimlessly falling. A flicker, a flame, she drifts on the wind, letting her thoughts rest and release, smelling the air and tasting the magic and wondering, wondering, when everything changed.
She mourns the home she once called hers, the moonlit forests and crashing coast. Childhood memories dance through her eyes, pictures without feelings of a happier time; she wonders where that innocence went, when she first fell into the clutch of depression. No, not depression- she is not quite sad. Not the way her mother was, tired beneath such deep black eyes, weariness and wariness marking the lines of her words, the arch of her manner. In her youth she had watched as Rishima wandered, discontent but resigned to the life she now led. Copper child always knew her mother had not quite meant to give birth, had seen the way her aunt looked upon the twins and noted that the moonlit mare's eyes never reflected such motherly love. She had seen this without seeing, not until now, and the trouble of what to do with this knowledge deepens her mourning for ignorant days.
The dust settles, and she walks once more, reflecting on the fact that she does not know her sire. Certainly her mother had never loved a man, not the way Mirage looked upon Vikram. That her uncles are her fathers does not enter her mind; it never has, for how could they be one and the same? In the days of endless night when she had sometimes wandered alone, fantasizing of a father who would come take her away. In some dreams he was chestnut, a beast of brawn and bravery; in others he was kind and soft, his voice infused with love. In very few he took the form of Lace, though these flights of fancy were the fastest to die, for they were the only ones that came with a threat of deadly hope.
Gold legs press on, head shaking to dismiss the speculative thought. Her mane dances heavy, a mess on her neck; she looks back, instinctive, to check on the kitsune who sleeps on her back. Lately, she has found herself arguing with Natraj, unsure of the purpose of their lives, their desires. She mourns for the days when they saw eye to eye, when they agreed on the world and the world was theirs; days he remembers, and chooses to still live. But she cannot pretend that the world is alright, that her loneliness is quenched and her heart has grown full.
Black eyes drift to the opening skies, gaze sweeping aimlessly across horizon and cloud. The air is as empty as the wasteland before her, or so she first thinks, unfocused and void. Then a shape overtakes her, catches attention and draws her up, up to the heavens where above her a storm is beginning to rise, electric and animated, sudden and swift.
She wonders, at first, if it is Ampere; but the magic does taste like the electric mare, and the shape in its center is brighter than black. It is falling, a figure, cast from the sky and threatening to crash against the crust of the earth- an angel, perhaps, or a descendant god. She has yet to encounter the God of the Spark, and the arcing electrical current suggests that perhaps this shall be the day she does. Silent and still, she watches the figure, waiting for answers to questions unsaid, breath catching heavy in her throat and head arching up on a long, slender neck, to capture the details of this moment, this tale.
It's beautiful, she thinks. One of the most beautiful things she has ever seen.
"blah blah blah."
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